


Poems

by loudscreaming



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/F, Ficlet, Short One Shot, Val is a bit angsty, Warden Brosca - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-11
Updated: 2017-10-11
Packaged: 2019-01-16 00:10:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12331605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loudscreaming/pseuds/loudscreaming
Summary: Val Brosca isn't very good at writing poems, it turned out.





	Poems

Val Brosca sighed heavily in frustration, glaring at the ink-splattered piece of paper sat on the desk in front of her. It was covered in crossed-out words, the ink smeared and smudged from when her hands, with their too-big, clumsy fingers passed over it. She ran one of these hands through her thick, rough hair. Then, she realized that the action caused the ink still on her hands to transfer to her bright red hair. She groaned, and rested her head on the table in defeat.

How come  _writing a love poem_ was harder than killing a blighted  _archdemon_? 

She raised her head from the desk, which was carved in the ornate manner so many Rivani furniture was. Lifting the tenth attempt of the letter, she read over it, raising an eyebrow. How is 'your hair is as red as an orange' a compliment?  _Oranges weren't red_? What was she  _thinking_? It was nothing like the beautiful, flowing sonnets that Leliana wrote her regularly while she was away from them. They were so graceful and poetic - so much like her lover was. Her own poem was rough, scratchy and stupid. 

Much like her, she supposed. 

Leliana had taught her to read and write shortly after the blight had ended, at her request. After all, she had been promoted to Warden-Commander, and it would be prudent for her to learn such skills. Still, ten years on, she hadn't gotten the hang of it, and often still relied on Leliana or Nathaniel to help her with any particularly important letters. 

She glowered at herself in the inn's mirror, considering that she needed a break and could continue later. Her short, scruffy read hair was stained with pitch-black ink, and her pale face was sunburnt. Despite the general redness, she could still see that the tips of her ears had turned bright red as they did when she got frustrated.  

Despite herself, she chucked at her rather pitiful appearance. This entire endeavor was foolish, she decided. 

Yet again, what if she if not a fool? 

 _Stone,_ she cursed mentally,  _why couldn't she be so poetic when she wanted to be?_

She sat back at the desk, and reached for a new sheath of parchment, resolve filling her as she started again. 

 

 

 


End file.
